


he who is upon his mountain

by quadrille



Category: Drive Angry (2011)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-06
Updated: 2015-11-06
Packaged: 2018-04-30 08:21:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5156783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quadrille/pseuds/quadrille
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The dog's on the hunt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	he who is upon his mountain

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written in 2011, cross-posting it now.

They are nothing but numbers to him.  
  
No more, no less: humans (and their souls, so much heavier than their bodies) are individual digits crawling across the page and stacking themselves into neat little categories for his perusal; his dissection; his analysis. The checks and balances have always been an integral part of it. Two coins on the eyes, two per soul, two to ensure proper passage: there’s the equal weight and heft of them, in the scales which sway at a touch of his palm. He feels the weight of the souls and their crimes, he does. The ones entrusted into his care. He digs out their hearts with scrabbling claws and holds them delicately aloft for the judging and the categorising; he enters them into the inventory and the catalogue, numbered and ordered, perfectly balanced,  _perfectly._  
  
The day he first noticed that one was missing, it was as if someone had sliced it right out of him, taking their pound of flesh, funerary knife digging into his side and extracting what remained. One side of the column said one million, five thousand, three hundred, and fifty-six souls meant to writhe in his domain (his little corner of the plot, his grid-sector-quadrant-jurisdiction of the prison whole). But the true tally read one million, five thousand, three hundred, and fifty- _five_. The imbalance tilted him askew; it was as if he weighed more on one side and he found himself leaning to the left to compensate, walking heavier on one foot. It would never be right until the missing number came back. He needed to come back.  _There are rules,_  he could snarl at the shaggy-headed man, that cobbled-together escapee,  _and you don’t bend the rules, you **fuckhead**._  
  
The Accountant — as he’s calling himself on this plane, with the title eliding his proper name and identity (for counter-of-souls is simply one facet of the whole) — has amplified senses here. His head swings back and forth, nostrils flaring, taking deep drags of tepid mortal-air which carries rich layers of scent with it. He has pinpointed Milton’s smell and he follows it like a bloodhound, chasing one thready note lingering in the air: sweat-slicked leather, sour cigars, sweet sugar in the coffee, and sex.  
  
He walks with purpose (‘Purpose’, we could even call it, capital P) and single-minded strides. There’s little need for vehicles; he will walk and walk and walk to the ends of the earth if necessary. Milton can keep going to the end of days, and the Accountant will always be there, waiting and following. (He has to have a perfectly-tallied report by the end of the quarter, after all.) Milton came howling out of hell with fire-scorched winds and the stink of engine fuel, and the Accountant follows that scent. Dog-faced, jackal-faced, a baying hound to the hunt. He does not stop for food, does not stop for sleep — he simply walks and preys.  
  
“Um, sir. There’s blood on your suit.” The waitress lifts one wavering finger.  
  
He looks down, bemused and unaffected — he simply hadn’t noticed. His fingers scratch at the stain and when his long, spider-like hand retreats, the pressed white collar is immaculate as it began, swiped clean of any mess or irregularity.  
  
When he raises his eyes once more, his grin is wide and toothy. He looks at her coolly, without interest: simply one more number on the spreadsheet, another little tick for the tally, another waiting sheaf of corn for the reaping.  
  
“I'm looking for someone.”


End file.
